


Nietzsche is Dead

by mambo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AOU didn't happen, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), M/M, Misunderstandings, Sam Wilson Also Gives Wonderful Pep Talks, Sam Wilson Is Bisexual And Not Into Bucky Barnes, Sappy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:17:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4329963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mambo/pseuds/mambo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“God is dead.” —Nietzsche<br/>“Nietzsche is dead.” —God<br/>“Doesn’t matter if God is dead, or Nietzsche, or both.” —Sam Wilson</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nietzsche is Dead

**Author's Note:**

> I've always hated philosophy.

“God is dead.” —Nietzsche

“Nietzsche is dead.” —God

“Doesn’t matter if God is dead, or Nietzsche, or both.” —Sam Wilson

**…**

Bucky lives six blocks away.

He has a cellphone, but Bucky prefers to use a pair of high-powered walkie talkies that Steve snatched from SHIELD ages ago, back when they were, y’know, an organization. The walkie talkies work better, since it seems that the only person that Bucky has much of an urge to talk to on a regular basis is Steve. Steve is trying to change that, but it doesn’t mean that he’ll begrudge Bucky the walkie talkies. He doesn’t begrudge Bucky much of anything these days. Steve keeps his walkie talkie with him at all times, has it charge on his nightstand every night. It’s always on. The one time it was off things didn’t turn out too well, and they lost the security deposit on Bucky’s apartment six blocks away.

“Pagin’ Captain Asshole.”

Steve groans, looks up at the digital clock next to the walkie talkie on his nightstand. 3:04 AM. There’s been worse. He rolls over and grabs the walkie talkie from his nightstand, closing his eyes again as he responds.

“Captain Sexy to base.”

Steve can practically feel Bucky roll his eyes from six blocks away, which isn’t really fair since he’s the one who started it.

“Isn’t it a little weird to hear a ninety year-old virgin call himself sexy?”

Steve sputters, ends up saying, “I’m not a virgin” as something to fill the silence.

And is met by literal radio silence.

Then, a false-sounding laugh, crackling in the static between the walkie talkies. “Who’s the lucky gal, then?” Bucky asks.

And.

Well, how do you tell your best friend come back to life that after you saved the world for the second time you tried and failed to get drunk, went to a gay bar and got fucked by some guy who didn’t even give you his number? He didn’t even know that Steve was, well, Steve Rogers. Just Steven, some dude who may not be able to lindy hop but is actually pretty okay at grinding, when it comes down to it. Not that anyone isn’t. Grinding doesn’t take a terrible amount of skill, even if it can be pretty uncomfortable. Not that he does it too often. In fact, that night was his first and last time attempting it.

But luckily, before Steve can figure out a way to dig himself out of this trench, Bucky laughs again, still fake-sounding over the air. “On second thought, I don’t wanna know. Wouldn’t wanna do her some kinduva disservice. Captain America shouldn’t kiss and tell. Or I guess in this case, fuck and tell.” It’s like he spits out the word fuck, and Steve winces.

And then Steve thinks back to a snowy mountain top in 1945, to a few fleeting moments and a promise made with shaking hands and cold, chapped lips.

Steve breathes out a laugh. “Because you’re such a gentleman.”

“More than you, at least,” Bucky responds before the line goes dead.

Steve thinks, for a moment, that he may’ve fucked that up.

**…**

Bucky lives six blocks away and it’s better than anything Steve could’ve ever hoped for.

But Bucky lives six blocks away when, on a night in 1945, he closed the distance between he and Steve, whispered “I love you, Stevie” and kissed him softly, just a brush of his shivering lips against Steve’s. And he’s living six blocks away when Steve, seeing that Bucky thought himself rejected, grabbed his cold left hand and dragged him back for another kiss, deep and lingering, warming their bones on that snowy mountainside. But Bucky lives six blocks away today, and doesn’t remember any of that.

And while it’s better than anything Steve could’ve ever hoped for, somehow it’s not enough.

**…**

He’s eating a post-run omelet the next morning when Sam says, “So Barnes tells me that you’re not a virgin” right out of the blue.

Despite the look Sam’s giving him, Sam really can’t be mad about the half-chewed omelet on Steve’s shirt, not when it’s entirely his fault that Steve choked a bit and spit it out. Besides, with the way every 21st century asshole— _Stark_ —talks about his fashion choices, the chewed-up omelet may even be an improvement. Then again, he’s started wearing the clothes Natasha helped pick out for him more and more; the tightness getting to be more comfortable as he gets used to it. 

When Steve is done choking, he straightens up and says, “Don’t see how that’s any of your business,” nobleness deflected by the growing redness in his cheeks.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Just wanted to see if Barnes was kidding,” Sam pauses, then continues, drawing each word out slowly with raised eyebrows, “which apparently he was not.” He sighs, leaning back against the vinyl booth. Steve grabs his napkin, trying to get omelet off his shirt. “He also told me this while punching through a wall, if that makes any difference.”

Steve drops the napkin back onto his lap. “What?” he asks. Bucky had been so _good_ lately, channeling his emotion in healthier ways, and taking it to the punching bag when he had no other choice.

“Yeah, you’re gonna get a bill for that pretty soon.”

Steve sighs, shuts his eyes, and rubs his temples as he replies. “I meant why was he punching the wall?”

Sam pauses, thoughtful. “Sexual frustration?” he suggests.

Steve opens his eyes to glare. “I’m being serious, Sam.”

“So am I, Captain Grumpy Pants.”

The nicknames are apparently becoming an epidemic.

Steve sighs, dropping his hands from his head and reaching for his coffee cup. “Alright, so Bucky’s miffed that he hasn’t had a date in a while. We can…” He takes a small sip. “Set him up with someone, maybe. Think Maria is single?” he asks with a smirk, half because he _knows_ Sam is into Maria, half because he’s sure that Maria is one of the few people on the planet he’d trust with his best friend. Sam would be another, but he knows Sam isn’t interested. Mostly because of that one conversation where Sam had too many piña coladas and told him all about his sexual preferences. Steve has enough blackmail from that one night to last him a lifetime.

“First, I’m not going to waste the most capable, confident woman I know on your boy when Barnes is obviously stuck on somebody else. Second, don’t you think Maria likes me? C’mon, you _know_ I’ve been crushing on her since—“

“Stuck on someone else?” Steve interrupts because _who the hell does Bucky have feelings for?_ And more importantly, why hasn’t Steve been able to see it? Unless Bucky has some secret double life Steve doesn’t know about—which, given Bucky’s past wouldn’t be _inconceivably_ unlikely—but Steve thought he knew most of what Bucky got up to. The whole walkie talkie thing, y’know.

“For the Star Spangled Man With a Plan you’re pretty dense.” He pauses. “And selfish,” he adds. “C’mon man, it’s like you don’t even care that I’ve been trying to woo Maria for months now, but she still hasn’t gotten it.” Steve is staring at the pepper shaker, feeling frustrated and embarrassed, hating himself for being rude to Sam, but, “I’ve always been selfish when it comes to Bucky.”

Sam groans. “You two are too much.” He exhales loudly, then grabs the bottle of Tobasco and dashes a bit more onto his scrambled eggs. “Bunch of octogenarian idiots. Surprised either of you got laid with your complete inability to…”

While Steve would typically try and listen to Sam ranting about his stupidity—which is something that Steve is well aware of, even if Sam isn’t so sure—he spaces out, letting his mind wonder about Bucky. He didn’t even know Bucky _knew_ any girls. Except, if it’s…

“Natasha,” Steve says, looking up at Sam.

“What about her?” Sam asks, obviously miffed that Steve interrupted him.

“That’s who Bucky likes, isn’t it?” Sam stares, and Steve takes that as a sign to continue. “Sure, she’s not like the gals Bucky used to take out back before the War, but she’s capable, strong, beautiful, clever. Hell, she’s smarter than I am.”

Sam mutters, “Mostly because you’re such a—“

“ _And_ ,” Steve adds, matter-of-fact, “She’s brave. She’s the bravest person alive.” He thinks of the way that she was shot before taking down Project Insight, how she gave up her secrecy for the good of humanity. Not may people would do that. “He’s got good taste,” Steve decides, even if something inside his chest feels hollow.

“Yeah, he must have somethin’ for reckless do-gooders.”

Steve glares.

“He doesn’t have feelings for me,” he responds, because it’s not like Steve’s as dumb as Sam must think he is. He understands what all the muttering’s been about. “I mean… Maybe he did. Once. But he’s been getting his memories back and…” Steve swallows. “He knows how I feel. If he reciprocated he’d tell me. But he doesn’t, so it’s moot. Alright?”

Sam shakes his head. “You’ve still got nasty, half-chewed omelet on your shirt.”

Steve’s eyes widen as he looks down, Sam chuckling fading into the noise of the diner.

**…**

Bucky avoids him for a few days, so Steve is relieved to hear the walkie talkie go off a few nights later. Even if it is 4:34 AM. Whatever. Steve was planning on waking up at five anyways, to take a run, which would coincidentally take him to Bucky’s apartment building, six blocks away. Just to check up, just to make sure he’s still breathing.

“Pagin’ Captain Butt Face.”

Steve scrambles for the walkie talkie, nearly knocking his alarm clock over in his haste. “Buck,” he says, the word coming out breathy and worried, and Steve can’t bring himself to care.

There’s a pause, then, “That’s not regulation, over.”

Steve can’t help his lips curling into a smile. “I’ve never been one for rules, Buck. You know that.”

“Still go stormin’ into places you aren’t supposed to be to save hopeless cases?”

“Never hopeless,” Steve says, too sincere. “You were never—“

Bucky holds onto his mic, causing a bout of static that interrupts Steve’s words. “So,” Bucky says, when he’s done being a child. “I punched a hole through the wall.”

“I heard,” Steve says, laying down, holding his walkie talkie close to his mouth.

“Sam?”

“No, the tiny elf I have in your room that I’ve paid to spy on you.”

“That traitor,” Bucky says, disgruntled. It only makes Steve laugh.

“Anyhow, it’s not like it hasn’t happened before. I’ll just call the landlord about it, use the credit card Tony gave me for the repairs.”

“Well,” Bucky says, sounding hesitant. “It’s not. Um.” He stops.

“What is it, Buck?” Steve prompts. “Whatever it is, it’s okay. We can fix it.”

“I kinda trashed the place,” Bucky says, and Steve can almost see his hurt, embarrassed eyes from six blocks away. He never wants Bucky to look like that, even when he can’t actually, y’know, see him. “And I’ll clean it up, I swear, but I…”

“Want to push the couch cushions together?”

There’s a pause and Steve imagines his red lips curling up into a smile. “If you wouldn’t mind, maybe I could bring my stuff over in the mornin’.”

“Buck, the sun’ll be out any minute. I wouldn’t mind if you brought your stuff over right now.”

“Sounds like a plan, Big Guy. See ya in forty. Over ’n out.”

Bucky’s already disconnected before Steve can remind him to never call him Big Guy.

**…**

_The wind is howling around them, and Bucky shivers. “You cold?” Steve asks, coming out concerned, rather than nonchalant. He knows that Bucky doesn’t want to be coddled the same way that Steve had half-resented Bucky’s attention back when he was small. Now he realizes just how much that attention meant, where it’s gotten him. Steve can’t help but to want to reciprocate, to show Bucky how much he means to him through bowls of soup and bandaging his shallow wounds. But there’s only so much Steve can do on the battlefield, only so much he can do to keep the others from noticing just how much he cares about his right-hand man._

_“Sorta,” Bucky says, not looking Steve’s way. “But I’ll be fine.”_

_Steve moves closer to where Bucky’s sitting, wraps an arm around his shoulders. “C’mere,” Steve mutters._

_“I told you, I was—“_

_“It’s okay. I’m cold, too.”_

_That works, using Bucky’s own protective streak against him. Bucky reluctantly moves closer, letting his body rest on Steve’s. It’s warm and comfortable, probably the best Steve has felt in ages._

**…**

Bucky is there in twenty minutes with a half-packed duffle and blue bags underneath his eyes.

“Hey there, Buck,” Steve says, opening the door.

Bucky looks down. “Sorry I gotta—“

“C’mon, don’t give me that.” Steve smiles, because after all this time, it still seems like a miracle every time Bucky shows up at his door. “I’m happy to have you come stay. You know that.”

“Whatever,” Bucky responds, pushing past Steve and into his apartment. He takes a few steps in and drops his bag on the kitchen island before turning around. He watches Steve shut the door, and while Steve’s back is turned he says, “I can go, if it gets in the way.”

Steve resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Bucky, I’ve already told you—“

“No, I mean.” Steve turns back. Bucky’s mouth is moving, like he’s trying to formulate the words he wants to say, but is having trouble. Then he says, “I mean if you’ve got someone special. That you wanna have come over.”

“Bucky… Are you asking if I’m seeing someone?”

Bucky shrugs his flesh arm, turns to look at the kitchen. “Are you?”

“No,” Steve says.

He wants to add, “Because I can’t look at you without my heart beating out of my chest.”

He wants to say, “How could anyone ever compare to the person standing in front of me?”

And what he wants to tell Bucky is, “I love you. No one else. Just you. Always you.”

Instead, he just adds, “Don’t have much time for dating in my business.”

There’s a terrible moment of silence where Steve thinks he said something wrong, but thankfully, Bucky looks back up, half-smiling. “Yeah, _that’s_ why you can’t get a date.”

Steve smiles back, grabbing Bucky’s bag from the counter and leading his friend to the spare bedroom. “It’s not the couch cushions, but it’s _probably_ livable.”

“Any place is more livable with you, bud.” Steve practically double takes, the sentiment seeming strange from this new Bucky. “What? I got somethin’ on my face?” Bucky asks, moving over to the bed and hopping onto it.

“Just a whole lotta ugly,” Steve replies. He pauses, wanting to follow Bucky but not sure that he’s allowed.

“C’mon, ya lug, get your bubble butt over here before I drag ya.”

Steve obliges, plopping his bubble butt right next to Bucky’s, laying with his face facing Bucky’s. They’re close. “Been a while,” Steve says.

Bucky grunts. “Only moved out four months, two weeks and a day ago.”

Steve raises an eyebrow and Bucky rolls his eyes. “You could move back, y’know,” Steve says. “Don’t feel like we can’t—“

“It’s better,” Bucky says, then winces. “I don’t mean… I mean, I… Sometimes space is good.” He pauses. “Don’t think you wanna be my whole world.” He looks down, eyelashes long and casting shadows on his cheeks. “That’s a lotta pressure for one guy, even if he’s Captain America.”

“You’re right,” Steve says. Bucky looks back up, obviously trying to keep his face passive. But there’s something flashing behind his eyes, an emotion that Steve can’t quite place. “You need to have more people in your life than just me. But you’re working on it. You’ve been talking to Sam and Maria, Clint…” He tries to keep the pain from creeping into his voice when he adds, “Natasha.” Bucky’s face doesn’t change, so Steve continues on. “You’re trying, and if that means moving somewhere else, with me or without, you have that right.”

“My apartment’s fine—“

“Bucky, you just trashed the place.”

Bucky seems to curl inwards and Steve can’t help but reach out, to push his hair behind his ear and let his fingers rest there, just for a moment. “I was angry,” Bucky says. “I’m doin’ better, Stevie, but I’m not perfect.”

Steve pulls back his hand, as much as he wants to keep it there. “Why were you angry, Buck?”

“Secret,” he responds, moving closer to Steve, wrapping an arm around his chest and burrowing his head into Steve’s shoulder.

Since Bucky was the one who initiated the touch, Steve feels justified in letting his hand rest in Bucky’s hair, stroking it in what he hopes is a comforting way, echoing the way Bucky’s fingers felt in his hair all those times he stayed at Steve’s bedside, praying for Steve. Bucky makes a small, pleased noise, so Steve continues. “Well, whatever it is, you know you’ll always have a home here.” Steve pauses. “Or wherever I am. I’m never gonna leave you behind, not again.”

“Even when you start datin’ someone for real?”

Steve sighs, exasperated but affectionate. “I’m making you a promise, here and now.”

Not that it’s much of a promise, when he knows the only person he wants to date is here, safe in his arms.

**…**

A few hours later, they’re in the gym on the seventy-third floor of Stark Tower. It’s a little strange to go to a friend’s place to work out, but he and Bucky tried to go to a few normal places, but it always ended up with the both of them feeling uncomfortable, exposed, and stared at. Back in D.C., Steve would choose monuments to run around, and here, sometimes he and Sam go for a run around Central Park. But Bucky doesn’t like being exposed, so it’s off to Stark Tower they go.

Things are good, Bucky running on a treadmill while Steve works with a punching bag. That is, until Natasha and Clint walk in.

Bucky vaults off of his treadmill, leaving it running to run over to Natasha. Steve moves so that his punching bag blocks his view of the three of them. Doesn’t stop him from hearing Bucky’s laugh ring loud and clear through the room. He punches a little harder.

He can’t hate Natasha. Logically, he knows that this isn’t her fault. And he’d never begrudge her for having mutual feelings. Steve knows better than anyone how swell a guy Bucky is, and how lucky somebody’d be to have him. And Natasha is one of the few people Steve knows who he’d be happy to trust Bucky with. But.

But he wants it to be him. He’s wanted it to be him since he was ten years old with a mouth bigger than his common sense, and Bucky had to save him a thousand times over. He’s wanted it to be him since he was fifteen and jerked off for the first time, Bucky’s smile, his newly longer limbs behind his eyelids, his name on his lips. He wanted it to be him when he first kissed a girl, and when he first kissed a boy. And he wants him now, still wants him after everything. But the wound of Bucky’s lips pressed to his own, chapped and cold is still raw, and the desperation of knowing that it could have been makes the thought of having Bucky so close just to lose that intimacy so terrifying.

Steve punches the bag. Again. And again. And again.

“Hey,” Clint says, startling Steve out of his own head. He hears Natasha say something, indecipherable over the noise of the gym, and Bucky’s laugh again.

“Hey there,” Steve responds, trying to be friendly, keep his features passive. He’s been trying to be less of an open book. It doesn’t work.

“What’s got you so worked up?” Clint asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

Doesn’t always work, just like now. “Nothing,” Steve says, still trying to feign ignorance, and looking anywhere but at Clint’s face.

“O… kay,” Clint says, drawing it out, not buying it but thankfully not prying.

Speaking of prying, “So,” Steve says, wringing out his stinging hands. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Clint says. They start heading towards the water cooler, which is automated and makes beeping nosies. Despite popular belief, Steve can handle most technology just fine, but the water cooler is utterly unnecessary and over designed. But it can put lemon flavoring in your water. In fact, Steve can’t quite figure out how to make it stop doing that.

“Is, um,” he begins, then clears his throat. “Is Natasha single?”

Clint looks at him with wide eyes. “Why? Are you interested?”

“No!” Steve says, loud. Natasha and Bucky both glance their way, and Steve lowers his voice. “No, I’m asking… Out of, um, curiosity.”

“Well, I’d tell ya if I could,” Clint says, elbowing past Steve to get to the cooler, despite the fact that it’s Steve who has been working out for the past hour and a half when Clint just came sauntering in. “But that’s something I’ve been curious about for a long time.”

“So you two aren’t…” Steve prompts.

Clint barks out a laugh. “Yeah, if you gotta know, we are.” When Steve gives him a confused look, Clint rolls his eyes. “Y’know the Facebook relationship status, ‘it’s complicated’?” he asks. Steve nods. He doesn’t have a Facebook—mostly because his friends are international spies or recovering assassins or Tony Stark—but Sam has given him a tour of the site. “Natasha and I are sort of the definition.”

“Then if someone else had feelings for her…”

“I like to think she wouldn’t reciprocate, though I can’t be sure.”

Ignoring the water cooler, Steve looks back to Bucky and Natasha, at how at ease he is with her there, how he smiles. And his heart breaks.

**…**

Bucky is sleeping one room away and it’s still not close enough.

When he first came back, Bucky almost never slept. On those rare occasions that he tried, he’d wake-up sweating, screaming, or reaching for a gun. Now he can sleep through most of the night and it’s Steve laying awake, trying to figure out what exactly he needs to do to kick this, to figure out a way to move on. Both of them deserve a shot with someone, even if it’s not with each other.

But it’s hard, with Bucky sleeping one room away.

And then Steve’s walkie talkie goes off.

“Pagin’ Captain Wanker.”

Steve grins, practically diving for his walkie talkie to respond. “Captain Awesome to base.”

“I want ice cream. You got any?” Bucky asks.

Steve thinks for a moment. “Probably a third of a carton of salted caramel in the freezer.” Steve doesn’t think about how long it’s been sitting there.

Bucky makes a highly mature barfing noise. “That’s the sorta shit grandpas eat.”“I thought vanilla was the preferred choice of the over-seventies crowd.”

“Whatever, let’s go get froyo.”

Steve glances at the clock. “Buck, it’s past eleven. Are there even any places open?”

“Are there any places open,” Bucky mocks. “‘Course there are, Steve. This is New York City, not Camp Leigh.”

And that’s how Steve gets dragged out in the middle of the night to a 24-hour froyo shop, run by a couple of pizza-faced teenagers unlucky enough to get the graveyard shift. There are a few other customers milling about—mostly college kids, from the look of it—and there’s soft, popular music playing in the background. Obviously having been here before, Bucky hops up to the counter and asks for some little paper taster cups. He comes back to Steve grinning, handing him a small stack. “They’re so you can try the flavors,” he explains.

He’s still grinning as he ushers Steve to the wall of soft serve machines. “Hey grandpa,” he says, pointing to one of the silver handles. “That one’s salted caramel. They musta known you were comin’.” Steve can’t help but grin back, sliding next to Bucky and knocking their shoulders together.

“Maybe I’ll try something new tonight,” Steve replies, looking at the various flavor offerings. “Key lime pie?”

Bucky shrugs. “Too sour,” he says.

“And you’re all about the chocolate.”

“Only took you ninety years to figure that one out,” Bucky says, holding one of his little paper cups underneath a machine and pulling the lever. The cup fills up too quickly and Bucky jerks his hand back, laughing at the mound of black and white froyo sticking out over the top of his cup. He licks it and his eyes nearly roll up into the back of his head. “You gotta try this one,” he says, shoving the cup towards Steve’s face.

“But you licked it,” Steve says.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Just like you licked everything you touched from ages five through twelve, c’mon _try it_ ,” he says, and Steve can’t seem to deny Bucky much of anything nowadays, so he takes the small cup and licks it. It’s good, creamy with little specks of something he can’t place.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Cookies and cream,” Bucky says, looking tickled before he moves to another machine to get another sample. It’s great, watching Bucky be so enthusiastic about the modern world, such a change from the dead-eyed man who came to his doorstep. But it scares Steve, too, knowing that Bucky won’t need him anymore. That he’ll be able to carve out a life all his own, going to froyo shops with actual dates and seeing the world without Steve by his side.

He tries to ignore the hollowness in his chest by trying strawberry banana, but he forgot that bananas today aren’t the bananas he remembers, and throws out the cup still half-full.

After spending far too long sampling too many flavors, Bucky settles on cinnamon graham cracker, strawberry and chocolate froyo with strawberries, raspberries, chocolate chips, marshmallows, and ground up Reese’s Cups, while Steve gets key lime pie and sour cherry froyo with grapes and raspberries, a few sour gummy worms mixed in because they don’t go with Bucky’s concoction, but Bucky’s not leaving the place without a few in his stomach. By the time they sit down at a small table in the corner of the brightly-lit place, Steve’s face almost hurts from smiling. Bucky’s feet knock into Steve’s under the table as he takes a bite, and even if it could all disappear, Steve wouldn’t trade this moment for any other.

That is until Bucky says, “So Clint told me that you think I have feelings for Natasha.”

Steve nearly spits a grape out at Bucky, but manages to keep it in, even chewing and swallowing it before answering. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve says instead, studying the empty street outside the window.

Bucky chuckles, snatching a gummy worm from Steve’s cup while Steve’s got his face turned away. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, I know you’re just tryin’ to get me settled in this brave new world.” Bucky’s old interest in science fiction has translated into reading a lot of dystopian fiction, and Huxley has stuck with him, even with all the implications of what has happened in his own life. “But I don’t like her, not like that.”

“Sam said… He said you have feelings for someone. I just thought…”

Bucky shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. He drops the pilfered gummy worm into his own cup, even though he said he didn’t want them in there. “Sometimes Sam’s got a big mouth.”

“Bucky, you know I want you to be happy. If I can—“

“Listen bud, I know you’ve got the tights ’n all, but even your superpowers can’t make somebody who doesn’t love me…” He trails off, shaking his head. When he speaks, his voice is warm, but he isn’t meeting Steve’s eyes. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, ‘kay?”

“You’re in love with someone.” It’s not a question, but a bewildered statement. How could he not have noticed? “Who?”

“Step off,” Bucky says, voice just wavering on harsh. “Just wanted to tell you that you don’t gotta go chase Natasha down, make her gimme a promise ring or somethin’.”

Steve lets himself smile, but it’s small. “I just want you to be happy,” he echoes, aching.

“Think you said that one or thirty times.”

Steve’s smile widens and he kicks Bucky’s shin underneath the table. Bucky fakes a yelp and Steve grabs a strawberry from Bucky’s cup between his fingers. He pops it into his mouth, Bucky’s exaggerated smirk threatening to turn into a smile. “Asshole,” he says.

“Takes one to know one,” he says through strawberry-stained lips.

**…**

(See, the thing is, Bucky’s technically living six blocks away, when he’s really been living in Steve’s back pocket since he was ten years old. And he wonders why Steve seems to willfully forget that night on the mountain, where Steve was the only warm thing in Bucky’s cold, dark world. It’s sort of driving him nuts—well, more nuts than he already is—this insistence that Bucky has to be in love with somebody, when he’s been hung up on Steve since Prohibition. Bucky understands, he really does, why Steve doesn’t feel the same. Seventy years of emotional baggage, two years of chasing, one year of together, four months of six blocks away. It’s a lot. You can’t ask that much of somebody, even when they’re Captain America.

Especially when they’re Captain America.

He’s asked for too much from Steve already. And Bucky wouldn’t be able to stand it if Steve said yes just to make Bucky stay. So Bucky remembers how to be Steve’s best friend as best he can, and tries not to dwell on big hands on his back, chapped lips on his own.

It was one time.

And now he lives six blocks away.)

**…**

Steve leaves at the crack of dawn, having spent a restless night thinking of how easy it would have been to kiss the sweetness off of Bucky’s lips the night before. He takes a run and finds himself in front of an old Jewish deli. He heads in, looking for bagels to bring to Sam— a peace offering for being so stupid.

Of course, some jerk takes a picture of him with an armful of bagels.

**…**

Sam is laughing as Steve walks in, bag of bagels, lox, and schmear in his arms. “Hey man, didn’t know that you were ‘Settling into home life, a honeymoon phase with the mysterious man who moved in with the good Captain yesterday already beginning.’”

“What are you on about?” Steve asks, setting the bag onto Sam’s kitchen counter.

“‘The dark-haired individual came to Rogers’ New York apartment late Tuesday night with a duffle bag. Apart from this bagel excursion, the two have been inseparable, even going for late-night froyo…’ It goes on. You want me to continue?” Sam asks, eyebrow cocked up.

“Are you telling me that they are reporters _camped_ outside of my apartment at night?” He thinks back; apart from a few post-nightmare, late-night runs, Steve rarely gets to or leaves his place past ten. You would think he’d be too boring to have paparazzi staking out his life. Steve doesn’t even think of him as being much of a celebrity. Sure, people recognize him, ask him for pictures and autographs, and he was invited to the Met Ball, but he doubts anyone buys a tabloid for sordid information about _Captain America_. Maybe Iron Man. But Steve’s supposedly a paragon of virtue.

“Does it really surprise you?”

Steve pauses, thoughtful. “No, I guess not. Doesn’t mean I like it, though.”

“Anyhow, onto the more important stuff,” Sam says, heading to the kitchenette. He pulls a cutting board out from a cupboard by the sink, a knife from a drawer underneath the counter. He pulls a bialy from the paper bag and cuts it in half before sticking it in the toaster, humming as he does.

“So you’re not going to ask about it?” Steve prompts, grabbing a poppyseed bagel for himself and copying Sam, though waiting for the toaster.

“About what?” Sam grins. He knows what.

“It’s not permanent,” Steve says, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter. “Just until he gets his apartment situation sorted out.”

“Which will be…?”

Steve rolls his eyes and doesn’t say _hopefully never_ like part of him really, _really_ wants to. “He hasn’t made any plans, but it’s only been a day. I think he just needs a little—“

“Time,” Sam finishes, like a broken record. It’s been Steve’s mantra since they started tracking him all those months ago, but so far it’s worked out fine. If not perfect, then better than _Sam_ had ever expected. “Look,” Sam’s voice is softer, his look less severe. “I know you wanna give him everything he needs, but if him being there is torturing you somehow, you should nudge him out.”

It’s like Steve’s been drenched in cold water. “He’s not… Bucky’d never…” It feels like he’s choking, an asthma attack that he hasn’t had in seventy years coming back, full force.

Sam rushes over to him, grabs his shoulder and says seriously, “No, he wouldn’t.” He swallows. “But you would do it to yourself. You have been since the day I met you.”

And the worst part is that Steve knows.

“Sorry,” Sam says, giving Steve’s shoulder a little squeeze. “That was harsh.”

“It’s not wrong,” Steve allows. Sam smiles, then gets up just as the toaster pops.

“You know anything about Nietzsche?” Sam asks.

“Sure I do,” Steve says, watching as Sam grabs his bagel with his fingertips and plops the parts down onto a plate. They’re steaming. “Read him back during the Depression.” Steve read a lot back then, all sorts of radical thinkers. Little Blue Books, and things from the public library. When Bucky took a year at Brooklyn College, Bucky’d bring books home for him, things he thought Steve would like. He usually guessed correctly. 

“I wasn’t much for Philosophy, but Riley was—he’d read stuff all the time out there. Wanted to go to college, maybe study that stuff for real, once we were done.” Steve listens carefully. He knows about Riley and Sam, how much Sam loved him, how much it hurts to talk about his death now. This must be important. “Anyhow, he read Nietzsche, and he pointed out that people always know the whole ‘God is dead’ thing, but never acknowledge what he says after.”

“‘We killed him,’” Steve finds himself saying. “Right?” Sam nods.

“Yeah. It’s not really about how God is _dead_ , but about how people aren’t moral anymore, and how they don’t believe in God anymore, so God ceases to exist for them.”

“Alright,” Steve says, not sure where Sam is going with this.

Sam starts putting cream cheese on his bagel, talking while he dips his knife into the little plastic container. “Anyhow, in the seventies, people started writing on bathroom walls: ‘Nietzsche is dead. —God.’ And it’s funny, and it’s existential, but it’s not the point.”

“What is?” Steve asks.

“That we have to be responsible for ourselves, and what we do. That we can’t just live life with no consequences.” He breaths heavily, and Steve wonders how many nights he and Riley stayed up talking about this stuff. “Doesn’t matter if God is dead, or Nietzsche, or both. What matters is what you believe, and who you believe in.” He pauses, looking Steve in the eye. “And you gotta start believing in your boy, Steve. And yourself.”

**…**

After bagels, Steve stays at Sam’s for a while. They chat and watch _Top Chef_ , and go shopping for a new blender for Sam’s apartment. Neither Bucky nor Nietzsche are mentioned, but there’s still something a little heavy between the two of them. Steve knows it’s fine, but he feels off the rest of the day, trying to sort out his feelings, and what Sam really meant with his brief foray into philosophy.

It’s a relief to come home and to find Bucky on the couch, wrapped in Steve’s blue comforter like a soft assassin burrito. He’s cute, with his head popping out of it, messy hair and pale skin. “You’ve got your own, you know,” Steve says, plopping next to him.

“It’s scratchy,” Bucky explains, moving closer so his comforter-clad shoulder touches Steve. Steve can feel himself relax. _This isn’t torture, right?_ he thinks as he leans into Bucky’s touch. “Yours is more comfortable.”

“Buck, it’s the same exact same comforter; I bought them at the same store. Yours is just green.”

Bucky shrugs, then grinning, he wraps himself tighter in Steve’s blue blanket in defiance. “Saw somethin’ about you on TV,” Bucky says, staring at the screen, smile falling from his face. Right now the TV is playing some drama that Steve’s sure he’s heard about, but has never actually sat down to actually watch. He wonders what TV shows Bucky watches regularly, if any. It’s never come up before.

“Please tell me it wasn’t the peanut butter commercial.”

Bucky snorts. Steve isn’t actually in the commercial, but they use a look-alike actor in a look-alike uniform for it, saying that Jefferson brand peanut better is “an All-American brand for an All-American guy.” It’s embarrassing, and trying to get it off the air was the one time Steve took Stark up on his offer of some PR help. Sadly, the only thing making a fuss did was put Jefferson brand peanut butter on the map, and they refuse to stop using the Steve look-alike. Stark is threatening to sue, but at some point, Steve lost interest.

But then Bucky says, “No. Somethin’ else.”

“What’s that, then?” It’s been a few weeks since he’s been on a mission, but maybe the veteran’s health care charity he donates to has gotten some good press.

Bucky looks at the TV screen, scrunching his eyes up a little, in that new way he does when he’s trying to think, to block out the white noise that seems to take up so much of his mind so much of the time. Steve wraps an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, casual, but letting himself get close. “They said you’ve got a boyfriend.” He glances up at Steve, then back to the TV. “You know you can tell me, right?”

“Buck,” Steve says, resisting the urge to sigh. “We’ve been through this, I don’t—“

“Why’re you lying to me?” he asks, quiet and devastated as he looks up at Steve with wide eyes.

“Bucky, Buck, I’m not lying.” He swallows, throat feeling dry. “Trust me. Please.”

“It’s…” Bucky begins, then sighs. “Sometimes I worry. That when I try to talk to you in the night, that you’re gonna be with somebody. And you’ll either ignore me or wake them up, and that everythin’ll just become a mess.” He pauses, thoughtful. “Well, more than it already is.” His voice is barely above a whisper, and it’s hard to hear him over the sound of the still-playing television.

Steve presses his face to Bucky’s hair, letting it rest for just a moment before inching up and saying, “You don’t have to worry about that. I know telling you won’t stop you, but you need to know that it’s not a burden, Buck. And if I’m with someone— _which I am not at the moment_ —and they minded you getting in touch, well then that’s a person that I don’t need in my life.”

Bucky swallows. “I’m never gonna be able to date again, am I?” he asks, a sad smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“Anybody’d be lucky to get a dance with Bucky Barnes,” Steve says, a shallow echo of all the pep talks Bucky has given him throughout the years about girls and dancing. “They lined up for you in 1945, and if you wanted, they’d line up again for you today. Never met anybody with any sense who didn’t want you.”

“Anybody?” Bucky repeats, looking at Steve with a smirk, eyes wide, maybe hopeful.

Steve blushes as he nods.

“Maybe you outta set me up, then.”

“Oh, um.” His chest feels tight again. “Have someone in mind?”

Bucky’s smirk falls. He turns around, looking studiously at the television. Steve is about to ease up when Bucky says, “You got all your memories?”

“What?” Steve responds, confused.

Bucky doesn’t look at him when he says, “When they defrosted you. Nothin’ got… shaken up in your brain?”

Steve’s heart breaks as he shakes his head. “No Buck, it’s all still rattling up there.” He tries smiling, but Bucky’s look of devastation, unable to be masked even as he stares at the TV makes Steve’s smile falter. “Bucky, why’re you—“

“I’m goin’ to bed,” Bucky announces, shedding Steve’s blanket and leaving it as a pile on the floor. He’s on his feet and in his room in an instant, door locking behind him.

**…**

_Bucky’s lips are chapped from the cold, but his hair is soft underneath Steve’s hand. When Steve starts to pull away, Bucky lingers, his lips curling into a smile, his mouth so near to Steve’s. “Been wantin’ to do that since I was thirteen,” he says._

_“You warm now?” Steve asks, chuckling as his hands shake with nerves and happiness._

_Bucky must see it, because he grabs Steve’s right hand in both of his. “Warmer than I’ve been in months. Years, maybe.” He’s grinning, and Steve is grinning, and Steve just has to lean back down and press his lips to Bucky’s once again. Watch be damned; if he died tonight, it would be with the feeling of Bucky’s warm breath on his face, a feeling that he’d be happy to take to the grave._

**…**

Twenty minutes later, Steve is dozing in his room when he realizes what Bucky meant. He shoots out of bed, naked but for his pair of plaid boxers, and heads to Bucky’s room. He pauses outside of it, trying to decide whether or not to knock. He knocks just once. “Buck?” he asks. After a minute—he counts the seconds out laboriously in his mind—he opens the door, just a bit. “Bucky?” he asks again, then peers into the room.

Bucky’s bed is empty, made up military-grade with the green comforter.

Steve’s heart sinks.

There’s no note, and Bucky’s duffle bag is gone. If it weren’t for the small opening in the window, it would’ve been like Bucky was never here to begin with.

**…**

Steve gets dressed, mechanically slipping into clothes before realizing that he doesn’t even have the lights on. Not that he cares about what he looks like right now; Bucky is _missing_ , and this is the one thing he can’t mess up. When he’s clothed, he grabs his phone, calling Natasha first.

Even though it’s near midnight, Natasha picks up on the first ring. “Rogers,” she says. “What is it?”

“Bucky.”

“Thought it’d be. No other reason you’d call this late. Trouble in paradise?”

“Natasha, this isn’t funny.”

She pauses, and then says, “What’s happened?” Her voice is serious, urgent. Steve appreciates it.

“He’s gone.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know,” Steve admits. “I haven’t checked anywhere, but if he goes to you…”

“I’ll let you know.” Steve exhales. “But Steve—“

“Yeah?”

“If he’s unsafe, I’ll have to take care of it.”

There’s a moment, then Steve responds, “I don’t think he would be. We just.” He swallows hard. “Had a disagreement.”

Natasha sighs. “Will you boys ever get your acts together?”

“I think I was fifteen minutes too late.”

**…**

After several other phone calls—Sam, Pepper, and Clint—Steve heads out to Bucky’s apartment building. It’s not a long walk—just six blocks away—but Steve feels cold, even in his worn leather jacket. The serum makes him into a kind of human furnace, heat radiating off of him all the time. The only times he shivers are when he thinks of ice, whether it’s his own body crashing into it, or the ice that froze Bucky between his missions. But he’s shaking now, nervous and freezing, wanting to crush Bucky to his side and never let go.

Because Bucky remembers.

Because Bucky lives six blocks away, and remembers the night where he and Steve kissed. Steve doesn’t know for how long, or why neither of them have said a word about it, but Bucky remembers. Of that, Steve is sure.

Nietzsche and can be dead, but Steve always believed in Bucky Barnes. He doesn’t know why he had stopped.

Steve enters Bucky’s building and talks to the attendant; he says that Bucky isn’t home. And when Steve climbs the fire escape to check, it really seems like Bucky isn’t there.

Steve returns home, shaking hands stuffed in his pockets, and pulls out his phone again.

It rings, and rings, and rings, before going to the standard, not personalized voice mail Bucky has set up. Steve waits for the beep, then, “Bucky, hey. I… I messed up, Buck. I messed up, and now I don’t know where you are, or how to make it better. But please, at least let me know that you’re alright. And… And come home whenever you want, Buck. I’ll keep the door unlocked.”

Unsure what else to say, Steve hangs up, strips back down to his boxers, and doesn’t sleep.

**…**

At a quarter to four, Steve glances at the walkie talkie on his bedside table. On a whim, he grabs it.

“Paging Sergeant Stupid.”

There’s nothing. Long enough that Steve is ready to put it back. Then, “Sergeant Studly to base.”

Steve shuts his eyes, lets himself smile. “Buck,” he says, soft. “Thanks.”

“Can’t leave you hangin’ when you’re leavin’ sappy messages all over the place. And called out all the forces, apparently. I got nothin’ but a long list of missed calls on my phone.”

“People care about you, Buck. Don’t like it so much when you disappear.”

There’s nothing but static, then, “Yeah, well, I was plannin’ on comin’ back. You’re the one who sent out the country’s best intelligence to come get me when I was gone for an hour.”

Steve lets himself chuckle. “I was worried.”

“Yeah dipshit, I figured out that much.” Steve shuts his eyes and tries to imagine Bucky, smiling despite himself. Steve hopes he’s safe. Steve hopes he’s warm. “Remember when I’d go look in alleyways nearby where you and I were supposed to meet, just in case you were gettin’ beat up in one?”

Part of Steve still bristles, especially knowing now that he could take on any of those assholes who’d beat him up back then. Another part preens, because Bucky remembers, he _remembers_ , and Steve wants to drink up every moment of it. “Hey Buck, what else do you remember?”

A moment, then, “A lot. My ma, yours. The way my sisters all took a shine to you. There was one Christmas when you bought a big jug of whole milk and put a silly red bow on it. We warmed it up.” Steve can remember the taste. It felt a miracle. “And I remember bein’ in the army. The way the coffee beans smelled, how my socks were never clean. Blood, a lot of blood. I can remember Jim patchin’ you up, and playin’ cards with Dum Dum.” He pauses. “Lots, Steve. I remember lots. Over.”

“Bucky, why did you never tell me?”

Steve shuts his eyes, waiting for Bucky’s response. “Because I don’t know what it means, Steve. Each time I remember somethin’ it’s like openin’ a book I’ve never read to a random page, reading a few sentences and shuttin’ it again. I never get the full story. Just snippets, bits and pieces that’re hard to make sense of. I don’t know the context, don’t know what happened before or after. I don’t wanna… I guess I didn’t wanna disappoint you, or make you angry, bringing up somethin’ that I shouldn’t.” There’s a pause. “Over.”

“There’s nothing you can remember that’d disappoint me or make me angry, Buck.”

“You sure about that?”

Steve firms up his resolve. “Yes,” he says. “It’s a part of who you are. And I’d never hate something that makes you who you are.” He pauses. “Over.”

“You gotta realize, Steve,” Bucky responds. “That so much of who I am is twisted up in you.”

“Buck,” Steve says, voice breaking. “What do you remember?”

“You.”

Steve waits and waits, but there’s no other response.

**…**

He spends the next day searching, but Bucky is nowhere to be found.

Steve heads to bed alone, wishing Bucky were there, but knowing Bucky will be back when he feels like he can be. He’s come back before. Steve just has to believe, and Bucky’s never let him down, and he won’t start now.

**…**

He gets the call from Natasha in the late evening, just as he’s given up on trying to focus on the book he’s reading, eyes looking over the same paragraph again and again, never really registering what the words on the page mean. Natasha’s call is a welcome distraction as he picks up. “Natasha?”

“He’s been at one of Stark’s places,” she says. “His childhood home.”

“Howard’s place.”

She makes a small noise of affirmation. “Tony offered it to him as a safe house a while ago, though Barnes never took him up on it. Looks like he’s there now.” 

Steve exhales.

“Steve,” Natasha starts. “Barnes is the greatest assassin in the world.”

“I know.” People seem to want to remind Steve of that all the time. He never hears the end of it.

 “And we just found him.”

He pauses. “I know that, too.” Natasha sighs, and Steve shuts his book gently. “I also know that it means that he wanted to be found.”

“Bingo,” Natasha responds. “You gonna go get him?”

Steve looks down, shuts his eyes tight for a moment. “No,” he says, miserable. “He doesn’t want me to. Just wants me to know that he’s alright, and…” He feels like someone is squeezing his stomach. “For now, that’s fine.”

Natasha give a little grunt, then, “You’re okay?”

“Sure I am,” Steve responds, opening his eyes up.

“I don’t believe you.” She’s too smart for him.

Steve looks over to the shut door of the guest room. “Then I guess you’ve got good judgement.”

**…**

Bucky is one hundred and twenty-six miles away, and Steve wants him to be here. Or he wants to go there. He wants the space between them to be approximately 2 millimeters away from each other. He wants to know what Bucky’s five o’clock shadow feels like when its touching his skin. He wants Bucky, he wants Bucky, he wants Bucky, he wants—

**…**

Steve is on his motorcycle, being a goddamn idiot and getting lost in upstate New York. The GPS on his phone doesn’t work wherever he is, and he’s gotten so used to having a little voice in his ear tell him where he’s going that he didn’t even think to bring a paper map along with him. Somehow, he’s become dependent on the technology everyone assumes he can’t use. And for the first time in his life, he’s going to have to give up.

But first…

“Bucky?” Steve asks, after he picks up on the second ring.

“No, this is Sister Catherine,” Bucky says.

Steve smiles. “You remember her?” he asks.

There’s a pause. “She used to…” He grunts a little, and Steve can imagine him shutting his eyes, trying to think it through. “Pull at your ears?”

“Yeah,” Steve encourages. “She—“

“Made you dust the chalkboard erasers once. Then you got sick. She thought your coughing was fake, but I was walking by and noticed. She liked me, and I convinced her to let me take you home.” Steve can hear the hesitancy in his voice, but he’s proud. He’s so, so proud. “Your ma was so angry, threatened to go give Sister Catherine a piece of her mind, but she had a shift at the hospital. I stayed over that night.”

Steve grips the handlebar of his motorcycle tightly, his grin threatening to spill off his face, fill the world with his happiness. “Buck, I didn’t even remember that.”

“Oh,” Bucky says. “Is it wrong?” He sounds panicked, and Steve can’t have that.

“No!” Steve responds too quickly. “No, I’m remembering now, it’s just that you reminded me, Buck.”

“I reminded you,” Bucky says, but it’s almost a question.

“You did.” Steve would cheer, if he could. But he’s standing roadside with his motorcycle late at night, lost somewhere outside of New York City. But he couldn’t be happier if he tried.

Then Bucky asks, “Why aren’t you using the walkie talkie?”

“I don’t have it with me,” Steve says, and he can hear Bucky frowning, even if he can’t see it. “I ended up taking a little road trip.”

“Out to see your boyfriend?” Bucky asks, trying to sound like he’s joking, but more like he’s tipping his toe into the ocean to test out the temperature. Steve wants it to be warm, comfortable.

“I was trying to,” Steve says. “But he ended up going someplace in nowhere New York and I’m lost, Buck. I’m lost. I’ve never been to the Catskills before. Barely been outta Brooklyn.”

There’s a long pause, and Steve’s heart beats fast, fast like he’s about to crash into something huge and cold and there’s no way out. He’s about to say something, to tell Bucky that he was joking, that he misunderstood what had happened between them on the couch when Bucky finally speaks. “Boyfriend?” he asks. “What’s he look like?”

“Handsome as hell,” Steve responds, trying to keep his voice even and mostly succeeding. “Dark hair, blue eyes. Pale Irish skin and a metal arm.” He can hear Bucky exhale from the other side. “That is, if he doesn’t think I’m too much of a burden.”

“Burden?” Bucky asks, voice small.

“I mean,” Steve begins, “I’m kind of a mess. I’m lost in the middle of nowhere with nothing but my bike and my phone, and I haven’t slept through a night since 1945. Paparazzi like to spend time in my bushes, and sometimes I end up taking down government agencies, almost by accident. So I’d understand if someone didn’t want me.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, small and anguished. “I…”

“But I’ll make it easy,” Steve interrupts. “I’m exhausted. I’m going to get back to Brooklyn, to my apartment, where I’m going to crawl into bed and sleep for the next fourteen hours or so. If a handsome guy wanted to join me, my comforter is waiting.”

“I…” Bucky starts again, but doesn’t finish.

“If not, then I understand.”

“Alright,” Bucky says.

“Okay,” Steve echoes back, but Bucky has already hung up. It doesn’t matter. Steve believes in him, and himself, and knows that it’ll happen. They want to, they control their own destinies, and it’ll happen. And soon.

**…**

Steve goes home, and crawls into bed. He doesn’t know how many miles away Bucky is now, but he hopes that number will decrease. He really, really hopes as he drifts to sleep.

**…**

Things are quiet until there’s a dip in the mattress next to him, and then Bucky’s warm breath is on his neck. Steve smiles, and the breath turns into a kiss, just the lightest brush of Bucky’s lips against the sensitive skin of Steve’s neck. He shivers, and Bucky rests his face against his hair, just saying, “Shhh. We’ll talk tomorrow. Just sleep.”

And he does.

**…**

That is until the walkie talkie comes to life on his nightstand. “Pagin’ Captain Butt Face.” Groggy, Steve grabs for it quick out of habit, before realizing that the person on the other end is still in the bed next to him. “Buck?” Steve asks, not into the walkie talkie but to the warm person beside him. Bucky glares, and so Steve takes a deep breath, and puts the walkie talkie to his mouth.“Captain Wonderful speakin’,” Steve says, shutting his eyes just a little.

“I remember,” Bucky begins into the walkie taklie, then pauses. “I remember kissin’ you,” he says, then adds, “On a mountain. It was cold, and you were warm.”

“Me too,” Steve says, pushing the walkie talkie from one hand to the other, so that he can take the hand closest to Bucky and interlace his fingers with Bucky’s metal ones.

“I was just wonderin’,” Bucky continues. “If it’s somethin’ that you’d wanna do again.”

“Gee Buck,” Steve says. “Kissin’s real hard…”

“Shouldn’t be the only thing that’s hard,” Bucky says, and there’s silence between them for a long moment before they burst into laughter. Bucky drops his walkie talkie onto his chest, grinning and looking at Steve with his blue eyes. He squeezes Steve’s hand gently. Putting the walkie talkie back onto his bedside table, Steve reaches over and touches the side of Bucky’s face. “Hey,” he says, soft and sweet.

“You’re not talkin’ into your walkie,” Bucky responds, smile fading a little.

“I can’t if I’m going to kiss you.”

A beat, a breath, then, “Oh.” Bucky glances down to where his walkie talkie rests on his chest. He looks up at Steve, then down again, then slowly moves the walkie talkie off of him and drops it onto the carpet, where it thuds quietly. “Alright,” Bucky says.

Steve leans in.

**…**

There is no space between them, not an inch. Bucky is out of his apartment six blocks away and in Steve’s bed, pressing gentle kisses to Steve’s lips, his neck, his nose. Laughing when Steve gives his cheek butterfly kisses with his eyelashes. Breathing softly when Steve moves lower and lower, walkie talkies forgotten while skin touches skin. It’s wonderful, it’s good, it’s warm.

It’s close; they’re together at last, and Steve doesn’t want to let go.

**…**

**Two Weeks Later**

**…**

Steve sips at his mimosa while Sam finishes up his omelet. “You look better,” Sam comments after scooping up his last bite of eggs. “Happier, healthier. _Glowing_ ,” he adds, because he can be a bit of a jerk sometimes.

But Steve doesn’t blush, doesn’t even budge. Instead, he just shrugs. “Guess I am,” he says.

“Know you are,” Sam responds. “And it’s great man, really. I’m happy the two of you figured out all your weird crap and got it together.”

“Thanks?” Steve half-asks, chuckling.

“No really,” Sam says, after their server comes and clears their plates. “We were all waiting for the big moment. Honestly, I’m sort of sad I couldn’t be there for the big reveal, cheering the two of you on, maybe munching on some popcorn…” Steve can’t help but laugh for real this time, low from his gut, and when he’s done, he realizes Sam’s face has fallen.

“What is it?” Steve asks, eyebrows furrowing, taking in what’s surrounding them.

“No no,” Sam says, obviously picking up on Steve’s body language. “I just realized that I’ve never seen you laugh before. Not like that, at least.”

“Oh,” Steve responds, a little taken aback.

Sam smiles back at him, crooked and endearing. “It’s good to see you, the real you, finally.”

“It’s good to be here,” Steve says. “It’s good to be back.” He pauses. “It’s funny, both Bucky and I were dead, and now we’re alive. Sorta like Nietzsche’s God, if you think about it.”

Sam snorts. “I think you’re thinking a little too hard about it, Steve.” But they laugh and smile, and finish their brunch.

**…**

He and Sam part ways, since Sam’s going shopping with Maria. It’s their second date, and Sam says that he’s got a good feeling about it, that maybe she’ll let him hold her hand for a bit today. They’re taking it slow. Once Sam has turned the corner, Steve pulls out his walkie talkie. “Paging Sergeant Sweet Tits.” Their nicknames for each other have changed just a bit since they’ve started sleeping in the same bed.

It takes a second, then Bucky is saying, “Yeah, Captain Bubble Butt?”

“I love you,” Steve says, feeling himself blush, but smiling. “I love you, Bucky,” he repeats, because he needs Bucky to hear it, and know it, to believe in it. “And I’m happy that we’re together, and that you’re with me again.”

And the only thing that makes the moment sweeter is when Bucky, a moment later, says it back.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how I feel about this one at all, but if you liked it maybe follow me at whtaft.tumblr.com.
> 
> Tumblr user retaltyp made some art of the "soft assassin burrito" that you should check out!  
> http://retaltyp.tumblr.com/post/136689004432/made-this-for-whtafts-fic-nietzsche-is


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